Halcyon Days
by Lalalackadaisy
Summary: "Neither of them would survive without the other, but after weeks of isolation, Romano was far more terrified of being left alone for any length of time."
1. Part One

**Warnings (for both part 1 and 2) :** Implied violence and torture of sorts, eventual boy-fluff. One instance of he f-bomb. Nothing explicit otherwise.  
**Characters/Pairings (for both part 1 and 2):** Romano and Veneziano for part one, Romano and Spain for part two. Implied GerIta, blatant SpaRo.

xxx

"Here! Germany! We're _HERE!_" Feliciano shrieked unevenly, stopping momentarily to spit up a good deal of blood as best as he could. As he stood up from his crouched position to continue yelling, a hand clamped over his ever-smiling mouth and Romano hugged him from behind. If Feli kept yelling for help, he would probably never speak again.

He knew that Germany was on the other side, and so was - and so was Spain, so was Belgium and Netherlands and Hungary and that old jerk Austria and they were all looking for them along the wall, and oh, how he wished he could call out, too, but he couldn't, and he wouldn't be having his brother die on him after all they had gone through.

A gunshot rant through the heavy silence, and Romano jumped. Feliciano started, too, and the next second they were both flat on the ground, covering each other's heads, trembling as a desert breeze ruffled their sweaty hair and clothes.

A second gunshot, a third, and suddenly they fell into a blissfully familiar signal pattern. Romano immediately knew that if he turned, he would see Feliciano crying, his mouth straining against the metal at the edges that had kept him smiling through everything, blood dripping thick and slow from his mouth. Tears often fell to the rest dust below, staining it a dark mahogany color that gave nothing of the comforting and at-home feeling it had at Spain's house. His tears, Feliciano's tears, he was sure they had both cried a river since they got here.

They both slowly rose, fragile as old men, and Romano suddenly jerked around to look at Feliciano. Wordless, ever since someone had gotten tired of his cursing and threatening, he dropped forward and kneeled, arms out to the sides.

Feliciano understood immediately and clambered onto his shoulders. Romano shook with pain and gritted his teeth as Feli's knees pressed on his sore shoulders and hands tangled and pulled at his hair, trying not to let his instinct to scream take over. That would only bring agony.

He stumbled through the standing process and they crashed into the brick wall, his brother almost cracking his head. They were still for a minute as Romano caught his breath, breathing harshly through his nose. Soon, though, he straightened painfully and Feliciano took a breath.

He waved furiously and started screaming again, Ludwig's mangled name, over and over again.

After nearly a minute, Feliciano gave a cry, his first sign of happiness in so long Romano could barely remember the sound, but it was so sweet as it came and he couldn't imagine ever pushing it away again.

Feliciano scrambled to the top of the wall, finding strength in whatever he saw, and hooked a leg over the side.

A breathy whine came unbidden from his throat, and Romano's reaching fingers scrabbled against the unforgiving brick. His eyes were wide and scared, and Feliciano immediately reached down to weave their fingers together, the most comforting presence. Neither of them would survive without the other, but after weeks of isolation, Romano was far more terrified of being left alone for any length of time.

Romano didn't know who Feliciano had seen, but as Feliciano gently pulled and finally jerked his hand away from his brother's, he found he didn't care.

Feliciano dropped over the other side, and Romano screamed as loud as he could, voice ripping through his damaged throat, fluctuating, stopping and starting spasmodically as he sobbed and pled, 'don't leave me, don't leave me fratello, _where are you going?_'

Romano jumped, stretching desperately for the edge of the rough brick. He missed by a good two feet and cried out in frustration, trying again and again until he tired himself out to the point where he was lightheaded had to slowly sink to the pebble and crack-littered ground below, blinking white spots from his vision. He was reduced to gasping for air and trying not to waste any water left in his body by crying again.

He almost couldn't believe that Feliciano had actually left him there.

Closing his eyes, Romano tried to calm down a little, not wanting to get hysterical again. His brother would be back, he'd promised not to leave him. He'd be back, and he'd bring that stupid German bastard with him and maybe even Spain, but Romano didn't want to think of that yet because he didn't know what he would do if he ever saw Spain again. Probably just sit there with him and have a complete mental breakdown in his arms.

Slowly, the bright orange of the back of his eyelids faded to black and he drifted off as the Earth completed another rotation, simply too exhausted to wait any longer.


	2. Part Two

Clop, clop, clop, the familiar sound hammered on Romano's head and his body jolted in the opposite direction without his permission. The rapid movement had him collapsing to hold his breath on the freezing floor, keeping as still as he was able as he waited for the ripping pain in his ankle to go down to a somewhat bearable level.

Clop, clop, clop, it was still there and coming closer, and suddenly a high tinkling joined it like someone was tapping something long and metal on the floor. Romano shifted away further into the wall and focused on keeping as quiet as possible because maybe then they'd pass by and not bother with him again. After all, he'd been silent, completely silent for a whole week, and there was even a sign on his door reminding him to shut the fuck up and who was he to disobey, so, see, he wasn't going to interrupt anything again, no reason to, no reason at all-

Romano crossed the fingers on his currently available hand - _please please please please_-

xxx

Romano woke and the wall to his left exploded into shards of red. Crumbled debris rained down everywhere, hitting Romano as well, causing him to cringe. Too groggy to panic, he opened his eyes to an unusually dim world, head swimming. It looked to be about midday - either the next day, or the one after that, he didn't know - but trying to see was like peering at a bright painting with all the lights off.

Finally, as voices made their way to him, barely audible over the rushing sound in his ears, he realized with unusual clarity he could barely move. When was the last time he had had some water, he wondered disjointedly, because he was suddenly really freaking thirsty.

Fingers picking at the metal band welded to the bone around his ankle, Romano idly realized his pulse was like that of a rabbit's, heart practically trying to beat its way out of his chest. He again pondered if that was due to dehydration or the fear of the fact that he was probably about to be brought back to the place he had just spent two days running away from with his brother.

His brother. At least Feliciano had gotten away.

Movement finally flickered in the corner of his eye, moments before the world went black again.

xxx

The next time he came to, someone splashed ice on his face. Automatically sensing danger, he threw himself to the side, sprinting all of two steps before his legs simply gave out beneath him. His legs tingled and he felt a lump in his throat when he realized that he was really going back to that fucking facility. Or, Romano glanced down to see a tiled, sterile-looking white floor, shadow of an overturned bed behind him, that he was already there.

And then there were two arms wrapped around him and that voice, that voice he thought he'd never hear again, was cooing in his ear about how he was alright, safe now, Lovi, and he should relax and Romano closed his eyes, afraid to open them because he'd hallucinated before, and leaned into it, warmer than he had been in a month. Even in the desert, he had been shivering with fever, and- and-

His thoughts stuttered to a halt and he just threw his arms around Spain, bawling into his chest. Spain smiled, his eyes a little wet, and pressed kisses into Romano's hair in the middle of the hospital floor.

xxx

Romano woke up yet again, nearly _feeling_ the last tendrils of his dream vanish and stared into the noon sun, trying not to literally grasp at them. He lifted a hand to brush away some tears, but was surprised to find his eyes dry. He probably didn't have enough water in his body left to cry properly.

Romano rolled onto his side, determined not to let the desolation crush him, and nearly smothered himself in a pillow. His left arm rippled with pain as several needles were pulled out of the skin.

Too overwhelmed with the sheer tired he felt, Romano lay there for a few seconds, before it finally clicked and he was jumping out of the bed and turning a full circle around the real, real, real makeshift hospital room until his eyes lay on Spain, sleeping with his entire upper body on the other side of the bed.

He slammed into Spain, wrapping his arms around the man and clutching him as it his life depended on it. Romano pushed himself forward, trying to get as close as physically possible as tears streamed from his eyes. The salt water he hadn't known he had any left of trailed down to the corners of his chapped lips and stung, but he ignored the pain in favor of just holding and being held and listening to Spain slowly realize he was awake and laugh in joy. Still unsatisfied, still possessed by that same _longing_ he had been running on for the last who-knew-how-long, he pressed his head under Spain's, hearing himself keen but not really comprehending.

Romano didn't let himself think, just keeping up a mantra of 'Antonio, Antonio, Antonio' in his head to keep back the tide of feelings he couldn't even identify. He couldn't tell if it was only in his head, but didn't care to figure out if he was actually speaking.

They sat there for a good while, just being together, before Romano lifted his head and stared into Spain's eyes with a scowl. They made drugs that made his reality like his dreams, and eventually his dreams ended up a lot like his reality. Whether it was his subconscious rebelling or he just couldn't remember, though, Spain never smiled right in his dreams.

Romano dug the tip of his pointer finger into Spain's cheek, pulling it up into a one-sided mockery of what he was looking for. Spain raised an eyebrow, confused, and Romano continued to pull up until Spain leaned forward to nuzzle their foreheads together, a smile slowly blooming on his face.

"Same old Lovi," he whispered, and traced Romano's face with his gaze, unwavering, and unwilling to release his tight hold on the younger, "Demanding as ever."

Relief flooded through Romano and he almost giggled but then didn't because, damnit, he didn't giggle. Instead he practically buried himself into Spain's warm jacket, unable to decide between more crying and laughing. He ended up with a mildly hysterical giggle despite himself, and then burst into tears again, promising himself he'd never cry again.

He could hear Spain chuckle wetly and then fingers were combing through his hair, separating sweaty strands. Romano's eyes slid closed and he relaxed a little.

Spain picked him up with ease, his starved frame nearly waif-like, and Romano's fingers dug into Spain's shoulders, hugging them together even harder. Romano was easily carried over to somebody just entering, and when he suddenly felt a stinging pain in his upper arm, he forced himself look up from Spain's chest to take his face and kiss him on the mouth clumsily, afraid that he wouldn't get to do even that before the medicine left him unconscious yet again. Now that he thought about it, he was so used to getting drugged by this point he didn't even question it anymore. He should probably do that. After- after a little nap. He yawned into Spain's shirt and slowly succumbed to the pull of the darkness- finally dreamless.


	3. Part Three

Romano was seriously considering Spain's suggestion.

He turned over the old, leather-bound book in his hand, flipping through it once more as dust wafted up from the pages. Sunlight filtered through the equally-uncared for windows, illuminating the little specks in the oddest ways before his exhale sent them whirling chaotically around the room.

He squatted down, replacing the empty journal in an old box, and limped carefully around his attic again to look for something newer. He wouldn't dare in writing in one of his _nonno_'s old books, wouldn't dare using something which was never meant for him to use.

But he was seriously considering Spain's suggestion.

Antonio wanted him to write it all out, put it on physical paper. What had happened to him, what happened to Veneziano - Romano had flinched at his brother's name, mood plummeting further at that little reminder than at Spain having brought up the whole ordeal in the first place - and to just get his feelings down. Truthfully, Romano wasn't sure how he felt, other than soul-wrenching relief at being finally _home_, but he thought, even if he did, he would hesitate to give physical evidence to it.

After all, who would want their innermost secrets and their lowest, darkest moments out in a way where any other person could see?

He could burn it after he was done, he supposed, but just the idea of writing such a recount in the first place sent butterflies fluttering around in his chest. What if somebody found it? What if somebody _saw_? Him, laid out for anybody to see. What if _Spain_ saw?

Wooden boards as old as the ages creaked as he kneeled again and picked up a few more books, these filled, distracting himself to keep his thoughts from spiralling any lower. He opened what looked like an account of Rome's kings; Pompilius. The second one, which Romano knew from years and years of studying the history of Ancient Rome. Unfortunately, Rome himself was never around to give Romano an opportunity to impress him with his knowledge.

Water under the bridge. Romano sighed. He could no longer work up the will to be angry at his grandfather for abandoning him. There was pretty much nobody out there who didn't do that at some time, to the point where it was probably less their fault and more Romano's. He simply couldn't pinpoint exactly what caused everybody to just... _leave_.

Slowly, in a crescendo from just barely at the edge of his hearing to clear and loud, boots were moving up the staircase of the Italy household. Romano leaned back and swung up to a stand with his momentum, nearly stumbling when a sharp pain in his ankle alerted him to significant strain.

He turned, waiting for the door to open and Spain to come through to tell him it was time for a change of bandages and check-up on his ankle.

Soon, however, it was clear that whoever was walking up wasn't Spain - their gait didn't possess nearly the same energy - and before Romano could furrow his eyebrows and guess, the door swung open. Unlike the rest of the house, it was recently oiled and swung open clearly, brass hinges glinting in the warm afternoon glow.

Romano's breath caught, and he stepped forward, Rome's book thumping heavily onto the floor and sending up another swirling cloud of dust. He reached forward thoughtlessly, then withdrew his hand to simply look on with nervous eyes.

Feliciano looked back unsurely, gripping the dull door handle. His eyes were downcast and slumped shoulders gave him the illusion of being smaller than usual - aided by the unnatural thinness they both still retained. Most out of place, however, were the paired holes at either corner of his mouth, still prominent even now that his cracked lips and tongue were healed. Romano averted his eyes and tried not to wonder what they did with the device that had been there.

Feliciano stepped forward as well, once, twice, and then sprinted three more steps to his brother. Romano shifted apprehensively, not sure about what was about to happen, and then he gasped as felt his ankle flare up in pain when the muscles in his leg contracted. His muscles were seizing, acting up again, probably because of the sudden anxiety. _Stupid Feliciano, stupid Rome, stupid, stupid Spain..._

He collapsed to the floor and suddenly frustrated and humiliated tears were brimming in his eyes as he scowled at the cracks in the ground and clenched his fists, a low groan barely escaping.

Feliciano was beside him right away, and he was pulled forward until they were grasping at each other, once again reveling in the closeness and warmth that belonging to the same Italy brought to them. Romano's leg twitched and he nearly writhed, feeling faint. His one of his hands wound through Feliciano's shirt, the other through his own.

Slowly, slowly, the convulsions faded and he breathed, leaning into Feliciano, who he found was crying more than himself. Ironically, the boy was practically drowning in his own tears.

Romano chuckled mockingly, pulling back and wiping gently under his brother's eyes in an uncharacteristic moment of gentleness. They both fell into a tense silence, interspersed with hiccups, thinking.

Romano leaned back against a crate of books, straightening his leg out and massaging it a little. He carefully avoided his ankle.

They spent ten minutes in quiet, nothing in the room changing. The dust settled down and the sun moved another few inches across the sky, shining bright as every other day.

Romano was the first to break the peace. "Why did..." He trailed off, unable to string together the complete thought.

Feliciano immediately understood, lunging forward onto his hands and backing Romano up against the crates in his enthusiasm at clearing their consciouses.

"Ludwig! I saw Ludwig, Lovi, I saw _Ludwig_," he pleaded gently, imploring Romano to understand.

And he did. With such a simple statement, he understood so well why Veneziano left him at that wall for twenty-four hours, understood so deeply that it hurt to think about it and he turned his head to the side, nodding. Veneziano accepted his acknowledgement and pulled him forward again, twining their hands together and feeling their hearts beat as one, united as their country in body and in soul.

It wasn't justified, it wasn't fair, and, most of all, he didn't forgive Veneziano. He would likely never forgive Veneziano, and only when the memory retreated to the furthest corners of his mind, in a hundred years, or a thousand, would he forget.

Forgive and forget were entirely different things. He refused to forgive, but he would forget.

And he understood.


End file.
